


Love in Post-Its

by cywscross



Series: "___ Me" Drabble Prompts [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, TA Stiles Stilinski, Writer Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 09:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7164689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>1001 Reasons Why I Love You – By Stiles Stilinski</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love in Post-Its

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Corpium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corpium/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Любовь на стикерах](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9521096) by [JuliaJulia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaJulia/pseuds/JuliaJulia), [tatianatiana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatianatiana/pseuds/tatianatiana), [WTF_Teen_Wolf_Rare_Pairings_2017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Teen_Wolf_Rare_Pairings_2017/pseuds/WTF_Teen_Wolf_Rare_Pairings_2017)



> _perceptions3key said: "Value me" for the prompt if you don't already have 10 please :)_
> 
> I’m assuming Steter? I am very happy with this drabble and am so glad you sent me this particular prompt because I’ve been in the mood for fluff, and this makes me smile. I hope you like it :)

 

_“He’s creepy.”_

_“He’s killed people.”_

_“He’s too old for you.”_

_“He’s evil.”_

_“He’s not good enough for you.  He’s not good for anybody.”_

_“He’s like poison.”_

_“He’ll turn around and stab us all in the back one day.”_

_“He’s just toying with you.”_

_“He’ll leave you when he gets tired of you.”_

_“_ Why _are you still_ with _him, Stiles?”_

Stiles has heard it all before, from his dad, from his friends, which only made it worse.  From the moment they found out Stiles was dating Peter, there has been nothing but disapproval.  Wrinkled noses and snide comments and suspicious sneers whenever they see Stiles and Peter holding hands or catch them kissing or spot them out on a date or even just notice them walking together.

It was worse at the beginning – the pack and the Sheriff protested with both more frequency and more contempt – but Stiles is as stubborn as they come when he makes up his mind about something, while Peter’s had a lifetime’s experience of people criticizing his actions, good or bad or neither, and neither of them have ever been the type to fall in line with others’ expectations.  Then there’s the fact that Peter didn’t so much as kiss Stiles until he turned eighteen so everything was perfectly legal.

Still, Stiles sometimes wonders how everyone he knows managed to turn out to be some of the most judgemental assholes in the universe.  What business was it of theirs who Stiles dates?  Who Stiles loves?   Concern for his wellbeing only gives so much leeway; when Stiles and Peter can’t walk into a room together without disgust and/or disappointment souring expressions and scents all around, even after two solid years into their relationship and a good five years since Peter did anything ‘evil’, it only ever made Stiles want to punch them all in the face before storming right back out.

He pretty much gave up changing their opinions early on.  He moved out – of his father’s house, of Beacon Hills – for college and never really moved back.  Never really plans to either.  Dad and Scott and all the others only served to chase him out even faster, and Peter followed.

They share an apartment now, have for five, going on six out of the seven years they’ve been together.

(Stiles insisted on living in the dorms for his first year because he was young and stupid and finally – near the end of his first semester during finals week – called Peter and basically had a mental breakdown over the phone because his two dormmates on either side of his room refused to turn their fucking music down no matter how many times Stiles asked, some guy was throwing a party down the hall and had invited what sounded like half the campus, Stiles was pulling his fourth all-nighter in a row, and he still couldn’t concentrate even after consuming way-too-many-to-be-healthy Adderall and coffee, and he was going to fail and flunk out and be a bum for the rest of his life.

Peter came and collected him that very same night, and within the hour, the werewolf got the party shut down, put the fear of the Devil into Stiles’ two neighbours, and made the drunk-but-rapidly-sobering RA piss himself in three minutes flat, all before he bundled Stiles into a blanket and burrito Stiles into the car, and only grabbed what Stiles absolutely needed before driving them both back to Peter’s apartment.

Peter never let him go back again; he was apparently more than happy to pack Stiles’ things for him, and it probably took all of the man’s self-restraint just to refrain from setting Stiles’ whole dorm on fire.  He still pulled the fire alarm on his way out just to make everyone stand around outside in the cold as they waited for the firetruck to arrive and give the all-clear.

Stiles was okay with that.  After his last exam, he refused to leave Peter’s – now theirs – apartment for almost a week.)

Their place is a fifteen-minute walk from Cornell’s campus with an amazing balcony view, rooftop access, and a Jacuzzi.  Nothing but the best for Peter Hale after all, and Stiles does have to admit – the Jacuzzi is awesome, especially after a long, stressful day at school fielding his students’ whining about their grades (downside of being a TA, especially since the professor insists on dumping all the lecture blocks in addition to the tutorial blocks on him right after essays were handed back, the sadist).

He only ever returns to Beacon Hills for a week during the winter break and another week or two over the summer these days.  He sends his father a few stilted emails every month.  He never answers the not so subtle enquiries about whether or not Stiles is still with Peter.

Scott on the other hand has simply never been particularly mindful about keeping up with texts or emails or even phone calls.  Well, he was better about it pre-supernatural shitstorm.  Pre-werewolf.  Pre-Allison.  Then it took a nosedive and never recovered, so Stiles can’t even bring himself to be surprised when a handful of texts and their scheduled skype calls every month quickly dwindled to nothing within the first year of Stiles moving away, especially since even Stiles’ efforts at keeping contact were half-hearted at best.

Which, again, not surprising.  Their friendship was falling apart even before Peter entered the equation.  The whole older werewolf sociopathic boyfriend issue just finished unravelling what was already near tatters.

But, as ridiculously sappy as he thinks it is sometimes, Stiles loves Peter.  Loves him like he never thought he’d ever love anyone.  Loves him in a way that his old crush on Lydia couldn’t ever compare.  Loves him like he wouldn’t mind waking up to it, to Peter, to the life they’ve made for themselves despite all the tragedies in their pasts, for the rest of his days.

And he knows Peter feels the same.  Feels it to an almost obsessive degree, and perhaps that would frighten most people, or disturb them.  If Stiles had normal self-preservation instincts, he probably would be too.  The way Peter looks at him at times, as if his very sanity hinges on Stiles loving him back, on having Stiles with him always, desperate and hungry and possessive in turn.

It _doesn’t_ scare Stiles though.  It should.  But it doesn’t, probably because something in Stiles hungers right back, looks at Peter and thinks a vicious, terrible _mineminemine_ that would raze the world to the ground if the werewolf was ever taken away from him.

Stiles has never been one to share, and he’s never taken loss well.  His mother’s death broke something in him.  His father’s absence and alcoholism broke something more.  Then Scott when his best friend had no more time for him, then the Nogitsune when it carved a place for itself inside Stiles, robbing him of autonomy and humanity both.  And no one else ever really _wanted_ Stiles around.

No one except Peter, so is it any surprise that Stiles never wants to let him go?

They’re happy, the two of them, which is what matters.  They fight over the stupidest shit, like dirty socks on the kitchen floor or dog-earring the books, and then they fight over Stiles putting himself in danger during a rogue omega attack or Peter not telling Stiles about an injury he sustained just because he has werewolf healing, but they make up and they move on, always stronger for it, and they never come close to breaking up.  Maybe they don’t _make each other better_ , the way other couples like to say about themselves, but they _are_ _better together_ , and for them at least, that means so much more.

Still, people – their supposed friends and family – talk, and even with only two or three weeks a year spent around them, that sort of talk wears on you.  Mistrustful glares the moment they clap eyes on you, malicious insults muttered between company, knowing full well that the one they’re insulting is a werewolf.

It makes Stiles angry.

It makes Peter… not good.  Not ‘not good’ as in ‘bad’, but ‘not good’ as in the barbs sink into a dark, thorny corner of his mind and chews away at him in the dead of night or at a quiet moment of the day when Peter is alone.

Peter hardly ever lets it show, but Stiles knows better.  He didn’t, at first, at the beginning of their relationship.  Peter assured him – with smug smirks and distracting kisses – that it didn’t matter, that he’s Peter Hale, grrr, banal childish name-calling is beneath him, and besides, he’s used to it, and he’s a grown man, don’t be stupid Stiles, mighty grownup werewolves who know how to adult don’t get hurt feelings.

Yeah right.  Idiot.  And Stiles is arguably an even bigger idiot for believing it for even a moment, much less three months.

But, well, like he said, stuff like that wears on you in the worst of ways, no matter how self-assured and confident the person in question is.

_“You’re not good enough for him.”_

_“You’re crazy to even think he would love you back when he has so many better options out there.”_

_“You killed people.  You killed Laura.  Stiles will see sense soon once the novelty wears off.  Once he sees that all you ever do is destroy the things you get your hands on.”_

Honestly, how can anyone _not_ be affected by that?

But Peter put up a more than decent front, right up until Stiles tore it down for good.  And yeah, Peter still tries to hide it, mostly right after they return home from a few excruciating weeks spent back in Beacon Hills, touching base with the pack and the Sheriff because they’re _the pack and the Sheriff_ , but that’s only because he knows Stiles can see right through him, and Stiles is good at banishing those bleaker thoughts that try and take root when they come creeping in.

Still.  One of these days, someone is going to piss Stiles off for good, and it’ll be enough to cut ties once and for all.

He dreads that day less than he thought he would.

 

* * *

 

And then.

And then Peter proposes.  During breakfast, Peter having just made Stiles’ favourite chocolate-chip pancakes.  Stiles is still in his PJ pants and Peter’s discarded shirt from last night when they tumbled into bed, all hot hands and hotter kisses.  He’s mussy-haired and purring over his food because Peter makes them in the best way.  Stiles loves mornings like this, when they don’t need to rush out for work, when they can be lazy and domestic all they want, and he can watch Peter’s ass as the man cooks.

And then, between what seems like one blink and the next, Peter – dressed in boxers and a shirt – gets down on one knee, whips out the ring, box and all, and – in direct contrast to the deep intensity in his eyes – says very simply, “You make my life worth living, Stiles.  Marry me?”

Stiles spends exactly twenty-two seconds trying not to choke on his mouthful of pancake before swallowing hard and blinking very fast, and then – screw it – he tackles Peter to the floor.

There was never any question what his answer would be.

 

* * *

 

But engagement means wedding, and a wedding means inviting people.  Unless they elope.  But surely, surely the Sheriff would want to see his son get married?  Surely Stiles’ friends can put their misgivings aside for one goddamn day and be happy that Stiles is happier than he’s ever been in his entire life?  Surely if Peter can interact with Derek without ripping his throat out for all the loss Derek reminds him of, then Derek in turn can look past Laura’s shadow just long enough to congratulate his last remaining uncle?

Apparently not.

Stiles decides to tell his father the good news in person, which is quite possibly one of the worst mistakes he’s ever made in his life, especially once Scott and his pack of morons find out.  Peter of course came with him, and everyone ends up having it out right there on the Stilinski-McCalls’ front lawn – shouting about Peter tricking Stiles and Stiles being an idiot and everything in-between – in voices loud enough that there are sirens in the distance because someone’s called the cops _on the head cop_ , and people are watching the live soap opera through their respective curtains.

Then Derek makes _his_ worst mistake.  Well alright, second worst.  Nothing can top fucking Kate Argent.

The guy probably doesn’t even think about it.  It’s practically habit for him by now – back from those few years when Peter was practically an omega and therefore easy to smack around, back when he and Stiles were still in the not quite enemies but not yet friends stage – and it shows in the way he lunges at Peter, eyes flashing, and clearly intending to grab his uncle and throw him into the nearest tree.

He doesn’t get within three steps of Peter.

Peter’s a lot stronger now.  He isn’t Alpha, but he’s a strong beta, comfortable in his own skin with Pack and mate in Stiles and potential packmates in several friends they’ve made back in New York.  He can take Derek no problem, and Stiles knows it, even if no one else here does.

But just because he can doesn’t mean he has to, Stiles is sure of that too.

He has his taser out and fires before Derek even knows what’s happening, and then he’s convulsing and borderline howling on the grass, even as Stiles calmly hefts his weapon at the next closest wolf – who happens to be Isaac, who knows better than to do anything except raise his hands in the air and back away, which is almost a pity considering how violent Stiles is feeling right this moment – and tells them all very calmly, “Peter and I are leaving.  Don’t bother showing up for the wedding.  Clearly, coming back was a mistake so I just won’t anymore.  I’ve had it.”  He turns cold eyes on his dad, a frozen kind of fury beating madly in his chest, thundering for release.  “You can pack up the rest of my things and send it to me.   I’ll even pay the transport fees.”

He doesn’t wait to see their reactions.  Instead, he turns and grabs Peter’s hand as he passes, and they both climb back into the rental car and drive away, just as the police cars turn onto the street.

A mile out of Beacon Hills, Stiles has to pull over, get out, and punch a tree very hard.  Several times.  Peter stops him before he breaks his hands but not before he bloodies up his knuckles.

 

* * *

 

They go home.  It takes a few days to settle back into their lives without Stiles feeling like he still wants to scream, but, well, it’s not like what happened is anything new.  It was just louder, more public, and infinitely more final.

Then Peter says something stupid.

“You don’t _have_ to marry me, you know,” He says one night over dinner, too casual in the way he twirls pasta on his fork and tilts his head and sits.  “Just thought I’d put that out there.  You’re twenty-five, you might not want to settle down yet, which is completely understandable-”

“Peter,” Stiles cuts in, sitting there and twirling his pasta right back because otherwise he might get up.  He might get up and go out and do something rash, like speed back to Beacon Hills right this fucking minute and strangle someone.  Possibly more than one someones.  “Shut the fuck up.  I love you.  I’m gonna marry you.  And nothing you or anyone else says is gonna change my mind, capisce?”

Peter nods and quirks a slight smile, but the faint troubled line doesn’t leave his forehead, and he’s just a little too quiet when they go to bed that night, presses just a little closer than he usually does as he spoons up behind Stiles, one thumb running rhythmically over the gold band around Stiles’ ring finger.

Stiles stays awake long after Peter falls asleep, seething, plotting, and finally smiling again as he eases out of bed, taking care not to wake his werewolf.  It’s sappy and cheesy and potentially embarrassing, but sometimes, for the Sake of Love and the Continued Happiness of Your Significant Other, you just have to put yourself out there.

Besides, Peter deserves it after all these years of putting up with Beacon Hills’ bullshit, largely – Stiles suspects – _for Stiles_.  If it were up to Peter, he very much doubts the werewolf would’ve ever contacted anyone in their hometown again after leaving it all behind him.

 

* * *

 

When Peter wakes in the morning, Stiles isn’t in his arms, isn’t even in bed, and for a split second, he thinks all his worst fears have come to pass and Stiles has left him.

Which is dramatic and absurd because even if Stiles ever left him, he probably wouldn’t sneak out in the middle of the night, and it would take longer than that to pack all his belongings anyway, and also, he wouldn’t leave his favourite pillow – the one leaning against the headboard right now – behind.

Another second passes and Peter picks up the telltale sounds of the shower running.

He’s an idiot.  Stiles has an early morning class to TA for today so of course he’s already up, as he is every Thursday this term.  Peter blames his not-quite-awake brain and their most recent visit back to Beacon Hills.

He rolls onto his back, stretching languidly before draping an arm over his eyes.  He doesn’t move until the shower turns off and – a few minutes after that – footsteps pad back into the bedroom and a finger pokes him in the side.

Peter grunts and moves his arm, peering up at his damp, towel-clad fiancé.

 _Fiancé_.  That word, the whole idea-turned-reality of it still carries with it a heavy dose of disbelief.  Peter was the one who proposed, and he was fairly confident at the time that Stiles would say yes, but there always was – and still is – that niggling voice at the back of his mind that _doubts_.  Not Stiles, but _him_.  That maybe, even after all these years, Stiles might still one day wake up and see sense.

Peter always tries to ignore those thoughts though.  It isn’t fair to Stiles because Peter _knows_ Stiles is loyal, is goddamn devoted once he sets his heart on something, and sometimes, usually when he thinks Peter doesn’t see, Stiles looks at him like _he’s_ the lucky one of the two of them.

Still they creep in sometimes, fears that jeer at him and remind him that it’ll only be a matter of time before McCall and the Sheriff manage to convince Stiles that Peter really isn’t any good for him.  That Peter will only drag him down and break his heart.

As if Peter ever could.  He didn’t plan for this either.  But he’s always been drawn to Stiles in one way or another, clever, brilliant, cunning Stiles with a sarcastic tongue to match Peter’s and moments of silliness that makes Peter laugh.

It isn’t that he doesn’t believe in love.  He does, believes wholeheartedly that there are people in the world capable of terrible, wonderful things all in the name of love.  He’s never underestimated its power.  But he’s always thought that that sort of love was for others, if only because he’s never experienced it himself.  Never met anyone who could – or indeed, even wanted to – invoke that level of love in him.

He cared about his family of course, his old pack, to the point where he would kill for them without a second thought, _had_ killed for them, both before _and_ after the fire.  He nearly died for them too, trying to pull them out of that burning house.  But they never loved him, not beyond familial duty, and even then, well.  Laura left him to rot, enough said.

And so he never loved them in return, never gave them more of himself than what he believed to be necessary.  He gave them his life and his morals and his talents but he never gave them his heart.  Never gave it to anyone.  Not until Stiles came along, and then somewhere along the way, he found out that love could happen to him too, and it was as terrifying as it was addicting.

If anyone’s lucky, it’s definitely Peter.  And if anyone could destroy him, with a word, with a rejection, with a walk out the door, it would be Stiles.

“I have class,” Stiles says now, and Peter tunes back into the present, determined to ignore his latest plague of pathetic insecurities.  His gaze idly follows a drop of water as it slides from temple to jawline to the beautiful curve of Stiles’ collarbone.

“Mm,” Peter hums, hooking a hand around Stiles’ neck to draw him down for a lazy close-mouthed kiss.  “Have a good day.  Don’t let your students walk all over you.”

Stiles snorts but takes the initiative and plants another fleeting kiss on Peter’s mouth before straightening to his full height.  “You too.  Don’t give your editor a coronary or something.”

Peter smirks.  “I make no promises, darling.”  Because Camilla is a wrathful monster in sweet human wrapping, and Peter loves riling her up, even if that does mean getting yelled at.

Stiles rolls his eyes and heads for their closet.  Peter appreciates all the bare skin when Stiles drops the towel.  He makes a moue of disappointment when Stiles starts covering it all up.

“See you tonight,” Stiles calls back as he breezes out, bag over one shoulder.

Peter waves him out the bedroom door, listening to the front door open and shut and the sound of the lock clicking.  He dozes restlessly for another hour or so before getting up too.  There’s no point when Stiles isn’t here to distract him from the persistent voices echoing mockingly in his head.

Besides, that conclusion isn’t going to write itself, and Camilla really will come over and kick the door down to get Peter’s manuscript if he doesn’t hand it in on time.

 

* * *

 

Peter gets home at around five.  Stiles isn’t due for another hour so he has time to decide what to make for dinner tonight.

He toes off his shoes, hangs up his coat, and tosses his keys in the tray before heading for his study to put his bag down.

He pauses not even halfway down the hall.  Unless he’s suddenly come down with a case of selective amnesia, the bedroom door wasn’t closed when he left this morning but it certainly is now.

Technically, their apartment came with two bedrooms, but one was converted into a second study for Stiles almost from the very beginning because they both prefer their own workspace, and they’ve shared the master bedroom for years now.

“Stiles?”  Peter calls out, subtly scenting the air.  But no, he’d hear Stiles’ heartbeat if the younger man was home already, and the wards would never let anyone else break in.

He draws closer until he sees the innocuous yellow square stuck on the wooden surface.  Then he stops again, thoroughly bewildered as he plucks the post-it from the door.

He stares at it for a long minute.

 

 

His heart flutters in his ribcage, picking up speed, and something tight wells up in his throat, making it hard to swallow.  He reads the note one more time, then reaches for the doorknob, turns it, and pushes the door open.

For a moment, all Peter can think is that someone’s inexplicably decided to change the wallpaper of their bedroom, because all he sees is yellow.  Then he blinks, and he realizes that it’s not wallpaper he’s looking at, it’s post-its.  Yellow post-its, square after square after square, rows and columns of them plastered on every spare piece of wall the room contains, even – he checks – the _ceiling_.

His bag drops to the ground without him really noticing, too occupied with reading the closest post-it note.  It says:

 

 

His breathing sounds too loud in his ears, and he suddenly feels shaky, like maybe he needs to sit down before he falls down.

He doesn’t.  Instead, he keeps reading.

 

 

And more.

 

 

He laughs a bit here, helplessly fond and admittedly a little turned on at the memories they put in his head.  This corner’s the raunchy one apparently.

 

 

And on and on and on and on.  His eyesight’s powerful enough to read even the ones on the ceiling.

He doesn’t realize he’s silently crying until arms wrap around his waist and a familiar body moulds itself against his back.  A chin hooks over his shoulder as fingers come up to brush over one wet cheek.

He lets Stiles guide them both onto the bed, sitting down side by side even as their hands slide together, fingers twining.

He catches sight of another yellow square out of the corner of his eye, and when he turns his head, he spots the single post-it on his pillow.  He picks it up and reads:

 

 

He drops it.  Drops the very first post-it too, the one he’s been holding all this time.  Then he pulls Stiles into a fierce, desperate hug, feels the smile against his neck in return as arms come up to hug him back just as tightly, and he tries very, very hard not to imagine where he would be right now if he never had Stiles.

He doesn’t need to count to know that there are exactly one thousand and one post-it notes in the room.  One thousand and two if he counts the one that was on the door, but one thousand and one reasons Stiles loves him.

One thousand and one reasons for Peter to live, to stay, to quit listening to Derek and Scott and everyone else back in Beacon Hills because what the hell do they know?  Not a single one of them knows Stiles as well as Peter does, and Peter knows Stiles loves him.  He’s always known.

When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse but neither of them pays it any mind.

“Green,” He rasps out.

Stiles pulls back a little to blink perplexedly at him.

Peter clears his throat.  “How many times have I told you to buy green post-its?  I hate the yellow ones.”

Stiles squawks, loud and indignant, and Peter starts laughing.

Stiles harrumphs but there’s a teasing light in his eyes.  “I called in sick just to get all this ready for you, you know!”

Peter just continues chuckling, and it only takes a few seconds more before Stiles snorts and joins in too.

 

* * *

 

There’s a small wooden box in Peter’s study.  It’s full to the brim with yellow post-it notes, carefully preserved even though he rarely ever reads them these days.

He doesn’t need to anymore.

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


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